


Bride of the Forest God

by MToddWebster (RembrandtsWife)



Series: Tales of the Forest God [2]
Category: Andrew Hozier-Byrne (Musician), Celtic Mythology
Genre: Deity Possession, Druids, F/M, First Time, Loss of Virginity, Pagan Gods, Possession, Ritual Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2020-06-30 08:09:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19849084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RembrandtsWife/pseuds/MToddWebster
Summary: Times change, and so do stories, and the Forest God has a tale of himself and his bride.





	Bride of the Forest God

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't expect a sequel to "The Forest God", but I was given one. There will be at least one more. Thanks again to gloriousthorn, rhysiana, and roosebolton for encouragement and critique.

_ Times change. People change. Places, too, change, more slowly. Even gods change, as mortals move from place to place, as time and weathers alter. Times and weathers and movements bring new stories, or else wisdom withers. _

_ Men came with long swords and horned cattle to the land where my people had lived. Men who needed less from the forest, fewer blessings from me. They looked into the wood and saw more shadows than light. They cleared the trees for grazing land and built bonfires for gods who dwelt in the skies. And so I drifted away from the world of mortals and the body I had held there. But still, ever and again, my blessings were remembered, my disfavor was feared, and they sought to do me honor. _

_ I am the forest god, he who took a mortal as his bride, telling you this story through the mask of him who speaks. _

I am Conmael, son of Connor, son of Cullen. My father is the chief of a noble tribe, rich in gold and cattle, dwelling in wide pastures. He has the right to wear four colours in his cloak and to have an archdruid and a senior poet in his retinue. I am the youngest of his sons, all of us trained for battle, armed with shield and spear and sword, fierce enough to fight naked like the heroes of old.

Well. My elder brothers are all fierce as Fionn son of Cumhall. They will tell you so themselves. I am a poor fighter, a middling good harpist and singer; not unlearned, but without the faculty of memory that a druid or a poet needs. As a boy I would as soon have wielded the spindle as the spear, and sat with the women in the sun-porch instead of training with the warriors, but I was not willing to give up my manhood and put up my hair and put on a woman's gown, so I am merely a middling good prince, not good for much of anything.

Which is why I was astonished when the archdruid came to me and said that I had been chosen to enact the Rite of the Forest God.

The tale is told that long ago, a god dwelt in the forest, and every year the tribe offered him a bride. The bride went to the god and lay with him and returned afterwards to the people to bear him a child. Every year the tribute was offered until there was a bride who chose to stay with the forest god as his wife, and so the custom ended. When, however, the blessings of the forest grew scarce, the marriage of the forest god and his bride was re-enacted to remind the god and his lady to be kind to the people.

I had seen the Rite of the Forest God a few times as a child and once since I came to manhood. A warrior dresses in antlers and deerskins and ivy, and a chosen maiden is dressed in fine linen and ornaments, and after a ritual dance, they lie together. I am not a very good dancer, either.

"Why me, lord?" I asked. "Why choose me for this honor, and not one of my brothers?"

The archdruid looked upon me kindly. "The seers dreamed, and the lots of the trees were cast, and the answer to our inquiries was you, my boy. You shall be the Forest God in the Rite. The god himself has pointed to you."

"As the god wills it, then," I said. "If I may know, who has been chosen for the god's bride?"

The archdruid hesitated before speaking. "It goes against custom for me to tell you, but it does not, I think, offend the god. The chosen bride is Niamh daughter of Fintan."

To my shame, I could not recall the face of the daughter of Fintan, or what ornaments she wore or even the color of her hair. And yet, she would be expected to lie with me, only because she and I had been chosen by lot. 

To lie with a woman who might not have chosen me did not sit well with me. A few days after we had first spoken, I went to the archdruid and asked of him whether I might meet Niamh and become acquainted with her, and she with me, before the rite. 

"I cannot answer that question, lad," said he. "I shall have to resort to the seers."

The seers took several days to render an answer, and their answer was that my request did not offend the god. So I was permitted to meet with the daughter of Fintan in my mother's sun-porch, attended by old Mother Macha the druidess, who did not hear very well. 

I had assumed that the daughter of Fintan would be of high rank, not so much in consideration of my status but in honor of the god. But I had not recognized her name or her father's for a reason. The man who escorted his daughter to the sun-porch was clad in coarse undyed wool and smelt of cow manure, though his bare feet were clean. He bowed to me many times and went away without speech either to me or to Niamh, which seemed to me very rude.

Niamh, daughter of Fintan, was a tiny woman, hardly more than a girl, I thought. She stood before me with her head bowed, her long fair hair veiling her face, clad in threadbare linen of a faded blue and worn leather shoes that looked too big for her feet. The top of her head, I thought, would barely come to my breast-bone.

"Gods be with you, daughter of Fintan," I said at last.

"The gods and the not-gods be with you, lord." Her voice was as tiny as her person.

"Of your courtesy, call me Conmael, lady. Will you sit down?” 

She crept forward the way a mouse creeps out of a wall toward the hearth, where crumbs are lying on the warm stones, and sat at the farthest end of the bench with me. She had not yet raised her head or met my eyes. 

“Are you well, lady?”

“Well enough.” She made a noise like a smothered cough. “I am no lady, Conmael. You are the son of a chieftain. I am the daughter of a cowherd.” She pressed her hand to her mouth, her eyes rolling like a spooked horse’s and her cheeks turning red.

“Nevertheless, the gods have thrown us together. Therefore I desire some acquaintance with you before the rite.”

Again she looked at me sidelong. I still could not see very much of her face, but it was plain to me that she was afraid--of the rite? Of me? Perhaps of everything, like the mouse she resembled.

“To get to know you better,” I went on. “To have some conversation of you. Just as we are doing now.”

She shifted in her place on the bench. I was not sure whether she wished to draw closer to me or withdraw farther away, which she could not do without falling off the bench. “Why should you care to know me better, lord? Neither of us had any say in being chosen for this rite. Nor will it change anything, for after the rite is ended, you will still be the son of a prince, and I will still be the daughter of a cowherd.”

I confess that I raised my voice in my exasperation with her. “Because, daughter of a cowherd, we are going to have to lie together during this rite, and I will not lie with a woman to whom I am a stranger and a trespasser!”

Niamh made a choked sound in her throat, but no words came forth. Only then did it occur to me what might truly be her trouble.

“Niamh,” I said gently, putting all the sweetness I could into my voice, “have you not lain with a man yet?”

Hand to her mouth, she looked at me with wild, terrified eyes, and then ran from the sun-porch. I supposed that meant she had not.

She would not come to me again, though I besought her with gifts and the persuasions of the chief poet. She would not even accept my gifts, except for a choice heifer that my father sputtered to lose. I could only wait until the coming of the rite and hope that the god and his bride would help us.

Weeks passed, and the days shortened, the weather began to cool. The stags were sparring in the forest when the druids began counting the nights of the moon. On the fifth day, they came to me and said, “Tomorrow.” I wished I might speak with Niamh, and even thought of going to her home rather than summoning her, but did not attempt it. At least she had the heifer now.

On the morning before the sixth night, I was bathed by druid attendants and clothed in all my finery. My mother had sent so many ornaments for me to wear that I clanked when I walked. The people held a great feast out of doors, with venison and apples and mead. I drank my mead watered and looked at Niamh, who sat at some distance from me, surrounded by armed druidesses. She was clad simply in a new white linen gown, her hair finely braided, and a garland of late flowers for a crown. She did not meet my eyes, howsoever long I gazed in her direction.

As the sun was setting, the druids came for me again. I was led away into the sacred place and stripped to my skin. In place of a prince’s cloak and ornaments, I was clad in a loosely woven cloak threaded with ivy and sprigs of pine, with a necklace of red berries and another made of pieces of bone and antler strung on a leather thong. On my head they placed a headpiece made of a whole deer’s hide, the eye sockets empty but the antlers still attached. The front legs tied over my shoulders, and the rest of it hung down my back. 

They bade me walk about with it and I felt as weak and clumsy as when I first lifted a proper sword. Then one of the druids showed me the steps of the dance I must do: a simple shuffling, slow and halting, but drawing an intricate pattern on the ground. I demurred at my own awkwardness, but the druid only smiled. “The knowledge will come to you,” he said, and then I was left alone for a while.

From within the sacred precinct, I watched the moon slowly brighten and clear the tops of the trees. From a distance I heard the sound of drums and bells and a dry rattling sound that made the hairs upon me stand up. No one summoned me or came to lead me to the dancing place; I rose from my seat and moved toward the sound, cautious as a stag emerging from the trees.

I saw fire, and ranks of druids and druidesses, and firelight shining off the torcs and armbands of warriors, and all the people gathered. I saw Niamh, still wearing her linen gown, crowned now with autumn leaves and wearing a necklace of acorns. I walked toward her, heeding nothing else. 

The rattling sounds grew stronger and I veered toward them. The druids gathered about Niamh were shaking rattles made of deer hooves. I tossed my head, feeling a curious flash of anger. They all drew aside, leaving Niamh exposed, undefended. I would defend her. She was mine.

She came toward me with shaky, uncertain steps. I could see that she was trembling in fear. I tried to smile, but the stretching of my lips did not feel like a smile or any expression that might comfort her. I lowered my head, thrusting my antlers forward, and began to perform the dance.

The rattling of the deer hooves guided the shuffle and stomp of my feet. Each time I felt uncertain, I paused, and the next step came to me. The dance led me sunwise around my bride, stopping at the airts to turn moonwise before resuming the circle, and drawing ever closer to the small, shivering woman who waited for me.

The drums thumped loudly and fell silent when I came face to face with her. I could see the terror in her eyes, the fear of what was to come. There was nothing I could do or say to reassure her.

Then I felt a sensation which was like the cleaving of my skull from behind, only there was no weapon. It was not my head, but my soul that was split open; my skull became a vessel for something far greater than my spirit.

_ Boy. Conmael. Son of Connor.  _ The voice reverberated inside my very bones.  _ Do you know who I am? _

I licked my lips. You are the Forest God, I said within me.

_ Yes. And now I am you, as you are I. Will you yield to me? _

I understood that by “yield,” he meant giving up control, letting him guide my limbs, letting him, in essence, perform the rite. His rite, after all. Was this what the druid dancer had meant? 

Yes, lord, I yield.

It felt as though someone who had been standing behind me, speaking to me, now moved through me to stand in front of me. I was at rest; withdrawn; my body might move and speak, but others would see only him, the Forest God.

Words I did not understand passed my lips. As if from far away, I could still see Niamh through my,  _ his _ , eyes. She looked into our eyes, and her face changed; some of the fear left it, replaced by wonder. Then she turned her back to us, and we turned our back to her, and the dance resumed.

With the god guiding me, my steps were surer, my movements more graceful. Niamh, it seemed, had learned her part of the dance far better than I had learned mine; her movements mirrored ours, together and apart, sunwise and moonwise. When at last the dance brought our hands together--mine, or the god’s, palm to palm with hers--a shock ran through me like the striking of lightning. Looking through the god’s eyes, I realized that Niamh, too, was more than human, her body hosting a numinous presence. The bride of the forest god.

Druids and druidesses gathered round us now and, drumming, rattling, chanting, herded us back toward the sacred precinct. They bound shut the gates with cords and ribbons and went away, leaving the silence to fill with urgency and desire.

Niamh spoke, and her voice resounded through the enclosure as if it were the voice of a whole choir.  _ My lord, it has been a long time since we entered bodies. _

_ Long and long, _ said my mouth, without my volition.  _ I have yearned for you, my bride. _

_ And I for you, beloved.  _ She laughed, a sound like the falling of water.  _ But be gentle with this body, lord, for it is still virgin. _

The god tipped my antlered head, smiling.  _ When was I ever not gentle, save when you requested otherwise? _

They moved together with the force of clashing hosts and kissed with a huge and terrifying passion. I felt my skin might rip, my heart might burst with it. I felt the god move me, then, as one might push a small child away from the hearth for its safety, shifting me further behind him. I sank into a dream where I watched the god and his bride come together without feeling any sensation.

He stripped away necklaces, cloak, and headpiece; he needed no headdress of antlers, for he wore his own. Niamh, or rather the goddess in her body, pulled off her gown with no hesitation, baring her body to the gaze of her beloved. Again they kissed, hands roaming; it seemed that flowers sprang out of her trailing hair, that vines wound about the god’s arms and legs.

He lifted her and carried her to a place where a pallet of soft furs had been laid. She laughed as he laid her down and drew him close, wrapping her arms and legs around him. He scattered kisses over her breasts and belly, then turned and lay down on his back, tugging her after him. The goddess straddled his strong thighs and took hold of his member, caressing it, then saluting it with her mouth. I heard words exchanged in no human language, then a joyous cry as the goddess seated herself upon him and took him in. 

My dream turned into sleep, then; I saw no more of the sacred union. When I woke, cold and stiff and bewildered, I hardly remembered what had happened during the ritual. But Niamh was still lying beside me on the furs, and someone had covered us with more furs and woollen blankets.

I began to sit up, and her eyes opened. For the first time, she looked me in the face, unafraid. Her eyes were not, as I had thought, blue, but deep green.

“My lord,” she said.

I dipped my head. “My lady.” I ran my hands through my hair. “How do you feel?”

She moved under the covers in a way that made me think she was touching her sex. “Sore, but… not hurt. If that makes sense. And I have been lying on a rock, curse it.” She wriggled and began to sit up.

I averted my eyes, and she actually laughed. It was a far different laugh from the goddess’s, almost a childish snigger, but I liked it. 

“Not much sense in being shy now, is there?” She patted my arm. I looked back and saw that she had wrapped one of the wool blankets around her shoulders. She had bits of moss and bark and what not sticking out of her hair. 

“What I wouldn’t give for a comb right now. And a chamberpot.” 

That made me laugh, and then we were hooting like a couple of fools, all the tensions of the night before dissipating in mirth. It was at that point, of course, that the druids arrived; they must have feared for a moment that we had gone mad.

“Are you well, son of Connor? Daughter of Fintan?”

“Aye, aye, we are well, all’s well….”

They separated us then, the druids taking me, the druidesses Niamh. I cast a longing glance backward, but the rest of the day was spent in washing and other purifications, and telling the chief druid what I could remember of my experiences.

I said that the god seemed pleased with the rite, and the old druid beamed at me. “The lots of the trees confirm it, lad. You bore the god very well.”

“Did you know that the god would possess me, father?”

He shook his head slowly. “We hoped. Sometimes he makes his presence known, sometimes not. And sometimes, the vessel that was chosen cannot bear him, and it breaks.” He gave me a long, silent look.

“Then why did you choose me?” I did not say: Is it because I am the youngest son, not very good at anything, good for nothing, but good enough to throw away?

He laid his gnarled hand on mine. “Because the lot fell on you, my son. Because the god knew that you were strong enough.”

I let a few days pass, then dressed myself in an old tunic and trews and no ornaments except a prince’s torc of bronze, finished with deer’s head. Then I took some leftover ham, some bread, and a couple of good apples and went out to the pasture where Niamh’s father kept the cows.

As I had hoped, she was out there with her heifer. The beast had grown since I gave her to Niamh and was munching away vigorously on the turf.

Niamh, too, seemed to have grown; she looked taller and somehow brighter than I remembered. Her hair was braided back, her gown kirtled up over her shift for work.

She saw me coming and stood watching, stroking the heifer with one hand.

“My lady,” I said. She inclined her head.

“My lord.”

I caught her eye and we started to laugh again. “Oh, sod it, call me Conmael. You must.”

“And I’m Niamh.”

I slung the pack off my back and offered it to her. “I brought you some provisions. Figured you were hungry if you were out herding.”

She took it. “My blessing and the gods’ to you. Though I’m really only looking after this spoiled creature.” She gave the heifer a little smack, which the beast ignored.

“She has grown,” I observed, taking the apple she offered back to me. 

She gave me a thoughtful look. “So have you, I think.”

The wind stirred around us as we ate our apples together. “Do you remember... anything?”

I shrugged. “Only as if I were remembering a dream. You?”

“Much the same. A vivid dream, though.” She raised her chin and met my eyes. “We could make some memories of our own.”

“Aye, that we could.” I smiled at her and she smiled back.

That was how I, Conmael son of Connor, met Niamh daughter of Fintan, who became my wife and the mother of my children, and the dearest friend of my heart.

_ That was how I, the forest god, moved again in the world of mortals and joined with my bride to bless them, as the age turned. _

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [rembrandtswife](http://rembrandtswife.tumblr.com) on Tumblr, and my Hozier sideblog is [palaceofobsessions](http://palaceofobsessions.tumblr.com).


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